


Tension

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 08:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15360378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The Greenwood is falling—it might be too late.





	Tension

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for Gohan-n’s “Elrond/Thranduil [kissing desperately]” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/176075204220/prompt-list). T for mild/vague violence.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, any of Tolkien’s work, or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The attack was sudden, swift, and swelled up out of nowhere, sucking Thranduil’s forces down into the boggy underbelly of his forest. He no longer has the luxury of waiting in his castle— _every_ soldier’s needed on the battlefield, and every little skirmish brings it closer to his doorstep. They can’t even seem to force the enemy back into the fields, but that’s just as well—the Greenwood is his _home_ , and Thranduil knows every root and branch by heart.

The Necromancer’s forces have no care for it. They trample his precious leaves and every piece of greenery, splattering red blood across the flowers and wracking screams of agony above the calls of birds. The clash of swords and whisper of arrows whirl all around him. Another useless dagger deflects right off his armour, and Thranduil slays the vile little goblin who threw it with merciless rage.

His son isn’t far behind him, though Thranduil tried to hold him back—he’s too _young_ for this, but Legolas wouldn’t listen. Tauriel is everywhere at once, earning her title tenfold. When Thranduil next catches a glimpse of her handsome face, blood-spattered across the little clearing where he’s taken his stand, her eyes say it all: they’re _losing_. Thranduil bitterly orders her, “ _Hold on_.” He means it to all of his troops. He won’t retreat, not until every last wisp of hope is far beyond his grasp, and he knows that some semblance of hope is on the horizon.

Sure enough, the trumpets blare, high and sweet: one elf’s promise to another. The two soldiers within his eyesight look up in wonder. Thranduil’s bow stops a giant spider from taking advantage of Meludir’s surprise. Then the two are in motion again, working farther away from him as their battles drive them on. Another surge of orcs pours into Thranduil’s clearing—the Necromancer’s hoards seem to target him no matter where he moves. He stands his ground to take them, though there’s more than a dozen, and he has few arrows left.

Thranduil slays two with ease, parrying a third while a fourth tries to circle around him, but a spear takes it and three others out at once. Thranduil spins in time to see his saviour leap down from a rushing horse, storming in to finish the rest. The horse leaps elegantly over the gnarled forest floors and circles around to trample another orc, protecting its master well.

The sentries reported Imladris in the distant, but the arrival of the horns still did Thranduil’s heart good, and the sight of _Elrond_ is more of a relief than he could ever express. Dressed in golden armour and gleaming in the evening light between the trees, Lord Elrond is like a Maia now: Thranduil’s last salvation. He knows what it took for Elrond to come—how few left in Imladris are truly _warriors_ , and how far, how swiftly they had to ride. They were never trained to fight amidst the woods like Thranduil’s guards, but from the cheers filtered through the hollow, Thranduil imagines they’re doing well.

As soon as the immediate clump of orcs is dead, Elrond turns his stern gaze to Thranduil. Thranduil knows how he must look—uncharacteristically _dirty_ , caked in mud and sweat from days of fighting, pushed to his wits’ end. It isn’t how Thranduil likes to be seen, but there’s no time for preening. Swallowing his pride, he tells Lord Elrond, “Thank you—”

He’d meant to specify _for coming_ but doesn’t get the chance. Elrond is suddenly _on him_ , pressing a bruising kiss against his lips, one hand coming up to fist in his matted hair. The kiss is fiercer than Elrond’s ever been, almost _desperate_ , and when Elrond releases him, Thranduil can see that desperation in his eyes.

When Thranduil’s had a minute just to regain his breath, he reaches out to clasp Elrond’s shoulder. He assures his lover, “You came in time. I am unharmed.”

Elrond nods, but the worry doesn’t leave his face. It’s a strange contradiction—that softness, as gentle and mature as he’s always seemed, dressed up in the strength of his sword and armour. Sometimes Thranduil forgets that he’s a soldier, and he’ll protect the things he loves as earnestly as Thranduil. 

Elrond promises, “I will make sure of that.” He mounts his horse in one swift motion on its next circle. Thranduil thinks the same, and together, the two of them turn back the tide.


End file.
